Sometimes, the edge is just that place, when you take a step, you fall off. The supposedly edgy SuicideGirls burlesque troupe does not have a steady footing.
The evening started in splendid fashion with Stupid, one of the most consistently exciting New York bands these days –and not even an hour late, a record of promptness at the Knitting Factory in my recent experience. On the front row, an annoying would-be neopunk in a duo-tone Richard Barone haircut started spitting. How so passé!
Next on stage, the SuicideGirls’ constant-companion band, Bloom, from Gainesville, Florida. Or, as they seem to prefer it, bloom. with a period and no caps. Whatever. A power trio in the usual rock format, they’re loud and they bang out their songs, the girls come out and boogie on the last number, and they’re gone. Competent but not earth-shattering. Nice red Gretsch, though.
The eight or so SuicideGirls are young, and not well versed in the art of modern burlesque; one routine stood out, though, a cheerleader/bad-girl catfight ending in mutual wedgies that was peppy and fun; most of the rest was rather routine and bland, like a high-school production, except for the grand finale, a free-for-all melee with whipped cream and chocolate syrup that ended with most goo flying into the audience, and especially on the spitter, who was the target of several blasts of whipped cream and of a whole squeeze bottle of chocolate. Chocolate syrup in the hair or on the glasses is no fun, especially when the culprits committed the unforgivable solecism of using Hershey instead of Brooklyn’s own Fox’s U-Bet. What a faux-pas!
Oh, and, girls, the five-o’clock shadow went out of fashion with Richard Nixon, you know…